Day Five is Blue Monday, so because I've been awake since 4am and have absolutely no idea what to write, here is a row of blue and white lanterns in the low winter light.
I'd tried listening to a podcast (Fortunately with Jane Garvey and Fi Glover) to help me go back to sleep but bits of it were so funny that it woke me up even more with giggling and by 7am I'd given up and was eating toast in my polar bear suit, cuddling a hot water bottle. By 10 I was a zombie and fell into such a deep well of sleep that I could barely string a sentence together when the man from Citizen's Advice called and dragged me back up to the surface. He was helpful, and made me half wish I'd succeeded at my Sociology/Law degree back in the 80's so I could have been useful too (I kept falling asleep then too). Anyway, now I have Hot Telephone Ear Syndrome from all the stressful conversations (this is a real condition that can only be cured with tea and Garibaldi biscuits apparently) but at least things seem a little more under control (touch wood).

I walked a little too and dabbled about with some paint; even though I don't like them and feel like a clot for even sharing them or writing this sleep deprived ramble in a public space I know that it's been good exercise to do it. For the first time in ages I've set an intention and stuck to it, even though it's felt like the world is collapsing. There is study by Ewa Kacewicz, Richard B. Slatcher, and James W. Pennebaker that promotes the idea of "Expressive Writing" as an alternative to other traditional therapies and ways of dealing with trauma, "When people transform their feelings and thoughts about emotional experiences into language, their physical and mental health often improves."
But don't worry, there are just two days left of this week long waffle, after which normal intermittent service will resume. Hopefully tomorrow will start at a sensible time with cooler ears and happier conversations. I think there may be treehouses in tomorrows post...
x

Day 2 of my resolution to use this space more frequently, I hope you don't mind. Your comments and messages yesterday were so kind and uplifting, thank you.
Today was the kind of sharp, luminous day when Catbells looks like a wonky slice of carrot cake with a light dusting of icing sugar (I have to thank Rick at Faeryland, Grasmere for that observation). The patterns in the ice were echoing the bark spirals on my favourite local tree; who I have imaginatively named Tree Friend (I'm terrible at names). The good thing about Tree Friend is that even in a pandemic it is possible to give him a hug, so he's currently storing up all the hugs I can't give friends and family. This is a tree I need to draw, it has a real personality - even without emoji eyes. I'm really loving the tree drawings made by Sarah McIntyre and Phillip Reeve at the moment, they collaborate on a wonderful series of kids books about a flying Dartmoor pony called Kevin and have a long standing tree drawing thing going on.
I so wanted to crunch through the iced puddles but they were too pretty to break; even so my footsteps made it creak and groan and shatter at the edges, like the crust on a creme brûlée. Nutmeg and I had to hide in the gorse bushes for a while to avoid John the farmer with his sheepdog; he's a flighty cat and would have run in panic rather than letting me pick him up. I do worry that he will have to adapt quickly to a new, probably less remote home.

There, I've blogged two days in a row (and after 11 years I still hate the word blog), now I can celebrate that small achievement and add it to my store of positives, along with hot baths, audio books, lots of tea and plenty of toast. How are you coping?
In other news I've applied to be part of an exhibition at Rheged which is part of the Through the Locking Glass project, Cumbrian artists reflecting their experiences during lockdown. I'm still not sure when this will happen but won't it be wonderful to visit galleries again!

Through the window, in the patch of sky behind the house, I watched the swallows making travel plans this week and, despite my notorious reluctance to leave my nest, I half wished I could join them.. what it must be like to be free to swoop about with all your friends and family, gathering in flocks and murmurations!
The Leaving of the Swallows is another year marker and, like the shortening days, the russeting of bracken and ripening of berries, we remark upon it as if it has never been seen before, not so early surely, not with such colours? September has come too soon, in a year that never really started, but it feels fresh and sparkly compared to August.
As always in September, without marking X's on the calendar, I remember that other September, 6 years ago now, when I  thought I was losing everything. The shock of a sudden and unfair eviction when you are so firmly rooted in a place has long lasting effects and will always leave a scar, like the marks left by Limpets on stone.

Anyway, there is a point to raking all that up again; I promise I'm not just failing to "move on and get over it" (as well meaning people suggested at the time) - although the revenge spells I cast are slow burners . These past few weeks here in the Lakes have been SO unusual that I found myself pondering "How did I get here?".  What part of recent events was brought about by pure chance and would any of these things have happened if I hadn't lost my home and moved to Cumbria?

I've also been remembering this time last year when I was at Moniack Mhor for that unforgettable week of submersion in the world of illustration and picture books, surrounded by wonderful inspiring people, what a place...

I think I mentioned in a previous post that despite my creative inertia, self doubt and of course the pandemic,  it had been a great year for publicity ( some magazine articles and a piece in a book)  and that I'd spent quite a lot of time talking to a lovely man from the BBC. When lockdown happened of course any plans we'd half made were shelved and I must admit I was relieved because for me, just being asked was enough. Imagine my horror when Max contacted me again last month with firm dates for filming.
You might think that someone who's been baring their soul in a blog for the past 11 years would have no problem at all with being filmed for TV but that's the thing isn't it, you can hide behind the keyboard and forget that there's an audience. I started to have flashbacks to the time my brother and I made our primary school class sit through a puppet show we'd asked to do -  because we'd got Sooty and Sweep puppets for Christmas - no script, no plan and a creeping realisation aged 7 that we'd bitten off more than we could chew.

I'd been asked to talk about Anna Atkins and demonstrate cyanotype for a section on BBC Countryfile dedicated to the Grasmere and Langdale area, including  a belated celebration of Wordsworth's 250th birthday. Wordsworth's home in Grasmere, Dove Cottage, has recently reopened and a fabulous structure called the Moss Hut commissioned ( a collaboration between Somewhere-Nowhere and Charlie Whinney) to reimagine the space created by Dorothy and William in their garden, a refuge outdoors, away from the busy cottage, where they could think and create. Dorothy described it as  a ‘little circular hut lined with moss like a wren’s nest’
The new Moss Hut is certainly something special, smelling warmly of oak and nestling in a newly planted sensory garden that will only improve with age.

In the end I managed to convince myself that I was just teaching a small , socially awkward, workshop and both the presenter Joe Crowley and cameraman Chris Greenwood  were lovely - I think it's a real skill to appear genuinely interested in the people you meet and be able to make them feel comfortable. I know I will cringe if I ever watch it, my confidence in my appearance and sense of how I appear to others has suffered a lot in the past few years (this time of change for a woman can be harsh as well as liberating) and I'm definitely not someone who would court such exposure normally. 

During the filming we walked around the garden at Dove Cottage and had a quick lesson from Jane, the gardener, in identifying ferns were told the strange story of Victorian Pteridomania. I must admit, the preparation has helped to re-ignite my interest, not only in cyanotype but also in the lives of Anna Atkins and Dorothy Wordsworth, so it was an honour to take part and be able to try and connect the two through their art, science and the love of observing nature. Meanwhile, in the Lake, my friend Polly Atkin was being filmed in a wetsuit, swimming and reciting poetry, so MUCH braver than me! The episode will be shown on September 27th if you want to see how it turned out for us both!

And so the strangeness of this year and the unlikely events obviously make me think "How the hell did that happen? Would it have happened if I still lived in my haven on the moors?"
I started this blog during my degree course in 2009 so that even though I'm sure no student ever reads it these days I feel it's been important to be honest about the journey. Oddly if I were to follow the trail back I'd say the Countryfile gig owes more to this blog than my actual artwork - writing here, often being more candid than I should have been, was the connection between people who later offered support after I'd landed in Cumbria, working in the bookshop and being part of Cumbria Printmakers connected me to Grasmere so that I was eventually asked to do a workshop at Dove Cottage which I think is how Max the Researcher found me. I guess what I'm trying to say is that little connections can lead to surprising places and that the route can be a winding one with some terrible potholes. I envy people who knew what they wanted to be from A level to retirement but now, aged 53 maybe I'm on a better path.
Thanks for reading x 

Reading:  Piranesi by Susanna Clarke.